Agent Reddington
by LovelyLittleFreckle
Summary: AU/Slightly OOC. Hints at Lizzington. What would happen if Liz and Red took different paths to avenge the deaths of the people they loved. Based on a prompt suggested by ltlearthquake and posted to Tumblr. Written for jackandsamforever.
1. Chapter 1

"I don't understand what's going on here, what the hell does the FBI want with a bank robbery case?" Raymond Reddington asked, closing the case file in front of him. "Local police are more than capable of handling this, why didn't you call some of your friends at the precinct? I was just ready to air out a bottle of scotch older than your first kid when you called me."

"I'm sorry this one was out of my control," Cooper said.

"I'm sure there is an equally handsome beat cop to whom she can confess on a Sunday afternoon. I've never met this girl; she couldn't possibly want anything to do with me."

"You should know before you go in there that the reason you were called in was because she asked for you by name, Reddington."

Raymond Reddington felt his blood run cold. He ran through all the past cases he could think of, anyone he wasn't able to put away who might have had unfinished business. The only time he ended up even speaking to women in their mid-thirties was at grief support groups. Maybe bartenders. Was there someone to whom he owed a favor, who may have given her his name? This woman's face was completely unfamiliar to him.

"Can I take it from the sweat on your brow that I have your attention or do you want to get back to your scotch?" Cooper asked, challenging him with little subtlety.

"What do we know about her?" he asked, resigning himself to the task at hand and feeling the chair creek as he leaned back, flopping the case file onto Cooper's desk.

"Her name is Elizabeth Keen. She graduated from Yale 10 years ago with a degree in Psychoanalytic Research. She was highly sought after when she graduated but efforts to locate her once the ink was dry on her degree were unsuccessful. In essence, she vanished. A marriage license, a few addresses and phone numbers linked to her, but nothing of note. And until now, no one looking for her, no criminal record."

"How about her family?"

"Mother and father were killed when she was four, house fire. Suspected arson. She was in the home at the time but she was rescued by a neighbor. Was adopted shortly after."

The photo on her case file made her look like any woman you might pass on the street, even though she was clearly stunningly beautiful. She didn't look like someone who had robbed a bank. Gorgeous yet trustworthy, she looked like she was more likely to read you the nightly news from behind a desk than point a gun in someone's face.

"Listen to me very carefully," Reddington said, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. "I have not had coffee yet this morning. If I'm going to deal with this you are going to need to get me the maximum recommended serving of the darkest roast you can find, and then I want you to add a shot of espresso."

"Or you could just do the job I'm asking you to do as your superior, Agent Reddington."

"I don't see _you_ doing anything compelling in here on a Sunday morning. Unless that game of Minesweeper you have open is a matter of national security."

"How in the hell have I not fired you yet?" Cooper said, sighing as he got up from his chair and grabbed his coat. "You're getting Starbucks."

"I hate Starbucks. It tastes like what would happen if real coffee were somehow capable of experiencing shame."

"You're getting Starbucks. Get in there and do your job."

He took a few moments to study her through the two way mirror. In order for her to know who he was, he had to have met her somewhere before. _When the hell would I have met a woman who has been invisible for 10 years?_ He tried to remember every waitress he'd tipped, every stranded driver whose car he'd jumped, every regular on his subway ride, every person to whom he'd handed a business card… he was positive he'd never met her. Taking a moment to adjust his tie in the reflection, he tried to think about the best way to approach her, but the circumstances had him caught uncharacteristically off-guard.

"Good morning Ms. Keen, I am Agent Reddington. You'll have to forgive the wrinkles in my suit as I am not used to showing up to work on a Sunday morning," he said.

"Nice to meet you, Red," she said with an easy grin.

"Feigning familiarity, are we? Yale Psychology's freshman seminars must have been _fascinating_," he said, his last word only a breath above a whisper it was so heavy with sarcasm. "If we are assigning each other nicknames already I am afraid you're going to have to tell me why you asked for me, or I'll have to insist on 'Agent Reddington' from here on."

"What can I say?" she said, settling back in her chair. "I asked specifically for the biggest smart ass in the bureau."

He laughed, in spite of her audacity. He studied her for a moment, waiting for her to talk. It was amazing what people would give up if you just sit and watch them. He had seen suspects buckle under his stare numerous times, but she let him search her eyes for a while. Although she wasn't talking, he noticed her eyes begin to wander; first merely to his lips, then to the corners of the room. As the silence continued, her chest, previously confident and squared at him, sunk slightly. Her blinking became faster, the pulse visibly throbbing in her delicate neck became quick. Then she began pressing her thumb into her palm, stroking the skin where it met her wrist.

"Looks like a burn," he said, remembering the arson case mentioned in her background file.

"It _is_ a burn," she said, fidgeting a bit in her chair. The confidence she had used to try gaining the upper hand had clearly been diminished noticeably. Reaching across the table he took her hand and turned it over, her handcuffs clinking against the metal tabletop. He felt her eyes on him as he cocked his head, studying the scar. Her hand was delicate, even with her long, slender fingers forming a tight fist under his grasp. He tightened his grip, running his thumb over the crinkled, whitened scar tissue. She was sitting up straight again, every muscle in her body seeming to tense up.

"Is that what this is about?" he asked. "Little Elizabeth Keen experienced childhood trauma so now she uses it to justify robbing banks?"

She wrenched her hand away, her eyes narrowing in anger. _There we go. Now we're getting somewhere._

"I don't need to justify anything."

"Robin Hood himself could justify this one, sweetheart. You scared the hell out of that teller, it was her 21st birthday today and now she's likely going to spend it laundering her underwear because of you. Now let's get down to business Miss Keen before I put into lock-up and I go on about my day."

"You want to get down to business? Let's talk about Marie and Addy."

The icy shiver of a nervous sweat stung his neck. Even after all these years, hearing their names spoken aloud give him chills… pangs of heartache that could make him curl up in bed for days under the right circumstances. He gulped away the strangling feeling in his throat that, if he were alone, might turn into an indulgent sob. A drink. Sleep.

"There is no more Marie and Addy. They died 25 years ago," he said, trying to sound as cold as possible, refusing to give her an inch of emotion to play on, to taunt him with.

"You know as well as I do, Red, that there will always be a Mary and an Addy Reddington. Just like there will always be a John and Anna Scott. They are the reasons that we do what we do. They are the reason that you devoted your life to law enforcement instead of the military. The hope that one day some case would lead you to the person responsible for their deaths?"

"And instead of doing that, Miss Keen, my job seems to involve spending my Sundays talking to ineffectual bank robbers who seem to know how to utilize Google."

"Or maybe it's your lucky day, Red."

"Tell that to the scotch I have waiting for me at home Miss Keen," he said, his voice deepening to a growl as he shoved back his chair. He moved toward the phone on the wall. "It's a shame, a pretty girl like you having to waste away in jail over stolen cash. I'll be sure to visit some time, we can talk about how shitty our lives have been."

"The people responsible for killing my parents are the same people who were responsible for killing your wife and daughter, Agent Reddington," she said, enunciating her words quickly but carefully as his hand neared the receiver. He froze. She winced inwardly, realizing she saw it.

"Alright, Miss Keen," he sighed, taking his seat again across from her. "I'm listening."

"It's not really a matter of listening, it's a matter of getting me what I want and I will get you what you want. The people responsible for what happened to both of us are associates of the men I was in the bank with today but they are very powerful, and there are quite a few of them."

"Names, or I walk right back over to that phone."

"Thomas Vincent Keen." She grinned, leaning back in her chair. With her hands still cuffed together she reached into the inner pocket of her blazer and produced five passports, slapping them down on the table in front of them. "Legally speaking, he is my husband. In actuality, he is a high ranking member of a crime syndicate responsible for taking out targets that they have determined will be recruited into influential positions in law enforcement."

"You mean to tell me you went to the trouble of _marrying_ a man in order to keep tabs on the crime ring he's a part of?" Red said, looking through the passports. All of them were from different countries, contained different names, but they all contained a picture of the same man. "I have heard of some scams, Miss Keen but I don't think anyone is that good."

"I have been that good. For three years. I'm very dedicated to my mission and it doesn't take much to be convincing as a doting wife when all men are paying attention to are your looks." Her confident swagger made him smile. His pulse quickened as he realized that she was likely right. She was a beautiful enough woman to make any man want to believe her. But he wasn't going to fall for a pretty face that quickly.

"How do you know they are responsible for the deaths of my wife and my daughter?" he asked, noticing his own tone change from interrogating to questioning.

"Think about it, Red. _You_ were their target. You always suspected it, didn't you? Once you pulled out of the military, even though you were unfinished business you were no longer a priority for them. But now, after all these years, someone found out you have been working for the FBI. They recognized your name, and now they have re-named you a target. Your life is in danger. I am here to protect you. And I am here to get you answers. To right a wrong."

He remembered the crushing guilt. He knew that no one would mean harm to his wife and daughter if it wasn't for him. The years of depression and crippling grief that took hold of him in the years after their murders was enough to make him give up on ever finding out what happened to them. This girl, however, was too young when her parents were killed to know when it was time to give up hope. And she hadn't. For the first time in many years he allowed himself to entertain the possibility that he might get answers.

"So why rob a bank?" he asked, realizing that he had been staring at her.

"To get myself into police custody, and out from under their watch. I asked for you specifically so that I could try to help you."

"And what are you asking in return?" he asked.

"What do I want in return for possibly saving your life and handing you over the first breadcrumb on the trail that leads to the men who murdered your family? Protection. I give you names, you keep me safe until every one of them is dead. I'm an asset here, Red. I think you can pretty easily make a case for that with Cooper. I wouldn't put myself here if I didn't think I could help you… if I didn't think I could get what I wanted."

She smiled at him with a genuine brightness that offered a stark contrast the fluorescent lighting of the clinical interrogation room. Despite the conniving and bargaining that had just happened in front of his eyes, he saw her face take on that same quality from the booking photo. Benevolent, honest and beautiful.

He got up from his chair and approached her side of the table. For a moment he saw the light fall from her eyes, and she leaned away from him in her chair just slightly. The crux of her plan had relied on his reaction and he watched her lose faith the closer he got. The hint of desperation he sensed as her breathing hitched reassured him; this girl was the real deal. He extended his hand toward her.

"Elizabeth," he started. "We are going to make a great team."

"You can call me Liz."

"Alright… Lizzie," he said, smiling as she took his hand. "Let's go make your case."


	2. Chapter 2

"You mean to tell me that in the span of fifteen minutes, this girl convinced you to not only clear her of wrongdoing, but to essentially put her on the force?"

Reddington and Cooper stood side by side, looking through the two way mirror at the woman as she sat alone in the interrogation room. Their arms crossed, neither man seemed as though they were entirely comfortable with what was being proposed. Reddington himself couldn't believe it entirely, but these were extenuating circumstances weren't they? He tried to convince himself that they were anyway, and that he wasn't getting weak in his old age. But this woman knew what buttons to push and he had to give her credit for that.

"I know how this sounds, Cooper. But I'll remind you that when you hired me I had a far more colorful past than this girl had. It was just never documented."

"I took it as a sign of your attention to detail and discretion. I'm beginning to wonder about that."

They stood in silence for a few moments, watching as the young woman fiddled with her handcuffs. Reddington observed her closely as she worried her scar, expecting to witness her rubbing off the very flesh of her wrist. Even if he was unsure of her motives, he could see that she was in need of help – and there was plenty of reason to believe that, given her record, she was a victim not a criminal. It was clear from the purple and grey of her eyelids that she hadn't slept well in days, even her cheeks were greyed a bit under the fluorescent lights. He recognized distress in a person and she exhibited all the signs.

"She knew about Marie and Addy," Reddington said, finally cutting through the quiet. "If this is a scam, she's thorough enough to have earned herself some respect in my book. But if it's not…" He didn't have to finish his sentence.

"Witnesses from the bank are going to want to know what happened, they'll be following up," Cooper said, looking at him finally.

"I'm up for crossing that bridge when we come to it, how about you?"

Cooper sighed, but assessed the situation silently a few more moments before squaring himself toward Reddington authoritatively.

"Let's see how she does. I want an ankle monitor on her – house arrest. She is to be in agent custody or in this building at all times. Wherever she goes, you go. I don't care if it means her sleeping in your basement, I'm not going to be the only one inconvenienced by this deal."

"I don't know about that Harold," Reddington responded… and he could feel him bristle. "Pretty girl like that is probably going to want an air mattress. What code do I use for that on the expense report?"

Breaking the tension, Harold laughed. Reddington saving grace above all things as that even if his boss was a stone-cold by-the-book hard ass, that at least they appreciated each other's humor.

"Anything goes awry here and it's your ass, Reddington. I'll make sure you become someone else's problem, maybe somewhere with a nice desk job… lots of paperwork."

In response, to the threat, Reddington mocked a salute as Cooper left the little viewing room.

He decided to stay back a few moments and collect his thoughts – think about what he was going to tell this woman. He looked down again at her case file and just how thin it was in substance and in content. This girl showed up out of the blue and robbed a bank to get into police custody and turn in her husband; what else could she be capable of? What had she been doing all those years?

When his eyes rose again to watch her, he found that she had gotten up from her chair and was wandering around the room, seemingly aimless. She didn't appear to be looking at much in particular, just stretching her legs and pacing a bit. Her attention turned to the two way mirror and she made her way across the room to study it a bit, just absentmindedly. At first, she just looked at her reflection, doing the little things that people do when they see themselves in a mirror. She lifted her cuffed hands to her face and rubbed a bit at her tired eyelids, maybe hoping that the discoloration was from left over cosmetics. She pulled an errant strand of hair behind her ear and turned her face side to side, looking at herself only briefly. She extended her finger to the glass, looking as though she planned on tapping it like a child at a zoo cage. Instead she tapped her fingernail to the glass only once, keeping it there and studying its reflection – it was the telltale test for two-way glass. This girl knew her stuff. If there was no space between you and your reflection, it was likely that someone was watching you from the other side.

She grinned, then pressed her opened hand against the glass. The glass fogged with the heat from her palm, creating a hazy map of her handprint. Without thinking, he knelt down, reached out his own hand and pressed his palm against the glass. She looked up blindly into her own reflection with a smile that he could tell was for him; she could feel that he was there. She trusted that he hadn't left her in the interrogation room to sweat it out like an animal, and even though it felt ridiculous, he wondered if she could feel the warmth from his palm against hers.

He stood again, straightening his suit before going back into the concrete room that held Elizabeth Keen. He entered the room without fanfare, without announcement and wondered if she would make a dash back to her seat, not wanting to be caught wandering around the room. Instead, when he came in, she sauntered back to her seat casually and sat down, looking at him kindly.

"Well, Miss Keen, despite all the common sense to the contrary, the bureau has decided to put you on as an informant, under house arrest and see what you can do for us."

"I can't be in my home – my husband will be looking for me there," she said, seeming a little unsettled. His eyes fell to her lap and he saw exactly what he expected – she was rubbing her scar.

"You won't be staying in your home, you will be under supervision at all times by a member of this team. At first, that person will be me… until we can find you other accommodations through more appropriate channels. This is a rather unprecedented situation, so you'll excuse me if things are… uncomfortable right now, but your husband won't find you. You will be safe, I can assure you."

"I just want to know that I'm going to be safe," she said, the ghost of a tremble beginning to quake in her lower lip. He hoped that she was not about to cry.

"I can assure you that you will be safe; nobody is better cared for than someone beholden to the FBI. Even if, ironically, it means staying in a stranger's home."

"I lived with a man who I had to pretend to love for the past few years; I'd much rather live with a stranger than to continue being one to myself."

Her words made him sad, hungry to know more about her… or to determine if she knew enough about herself anymore to even communicate that kind of thing to him.

"You say that now, Miss Keen… but how do you feel about prominently displayed antique doll collections?"

For a moment she seemed shocked, but when his face broadened into a smile, clearly intended to convey that he was joking, she relaxed into a chirping laugh.

"That depends, Agent Reddington – how do you feel about sleep walkers?"

"The new ankle monitor you're leaving here with should keep you from getting into too much trouble wandering around my apartment," he said. "Now, let's get that taken care of and we'll get you some food. You look like you haven't had anything to eat in days."

"What I really need is coffee," she said. "Is there a Starbucks on our way?"

He sighed heavily.

"It seems, Miss Keen, that we have a lot to learn about each other. And one of us has much to learn about good coffee."


	3. Chapter 3

Liz wandered about Red's apartment, cup of coffee in hand. At first she observed silently, drawing her fingers over the fabric on the couch, perusing the few framed pieces of art that adorned the walls. She moved confidently in her unfamiliar environment. She seemed to be taking in more information than Red thought could even be ascertained by a short walk in a drab living room. Despite the lack of furnishings, she looked strangely fascinated, nodding and "hmm"ing as she went but not exactly inviting conversation. She leaned over a framed picture on his bookshelf, studying it intently as he watched her from the kitchen. In the dim light from the floor lamp she finally looked relaxed. There was an air about her that was beautiful but foreboding, like a wildfire sunset.

"The Navy, huh?" she said, gesturing to the picture of Red in his dress whites. "I've always liked those uniforms the best. Very formal, very crisp." She gestured as if to neaten an imaginary collar.

"I preferred the dress blues, myself," he said, finding things to fiddle with in the kitchen to make it seem as though he wasn't watching her so closely. "Easier to keep clean. Slimming, too. Although in those days I didn't worry about that nearly so much. Desk work has made me soft in the intervening years." He stroked his hand over his belly for effect.

"You're fishing," he said, narrowing her eyes at him in amusement as she perched casually on one of the stools at the bar that separated his kitchen from his living room. "Normally it's women who fish for compliments that way with new acquaintances. You were raised by your mother primarily, weren't you?"

Red could feel himself turn mentally and physically back-footed, frozen to the spot where he stood with a bar towel in his hand. He reminded himself to stay on his toes… she was a psychoanalyst and she would have him at a disadvantage even without his constant tells. He folded the rag in his hand neatly, slowly, placing it over the handle on his oven door.

"My grandmother, actually." He gestured to a portrait behind her and she turned to look at it while he rounded the corner to join her in the living room. "Earline Reddington. Whip smart, an excellent cook and a champion martini drinker. I like to think it runs in the family."

Liz smiled, getting up from her chair to wander a bit again. She was anxious, clearly… stopping just short of pacing.

"For tonight I'm afraid you'll have to sleep on the couch, but tomorrow I'll have some time to pick up an air mattress and anything else you might need. Make me a list when you have the chance. You'll ride with me back to the Post Office tomorrow and we'll figure out the rest of the details then."

She worried the skin of her wrist, nodding in acknowledgement.

"Thanks, Agent Reddington. I'm sorry that this happened so quickly, but like I said, I promise that this will be mutually beneficial."

An authoritative knock on the door startled Red, but not as much as it had clearly startled Liz. The noise spurred her body forward as if she'd been prodded with a branding iron. Her coffee mug smashed onto the floor and in one swift motion, she reached over the bar to pull a large knife out of the block and she wielded it at the door. Red found himself suddenly pressed against the wall next to Liz, her forearm flung against his chest as she placed herself between him at the sound that had scared her so. He remembered doing the same thing to Addy in the car when he would brake too fast, forgetting in the moment that the seatbelt would likely do the job.

"Quiet," she whispered harshly. Red moved instinctively to free himself from her arm but her hold was much stronger than he had anticipated. "Don't move." She moved her arm to his throat, not crushing it but detaining him with an effortless authority.

He took a moment to catch his breath, the muscles of his throat straining against the soft skin of her arm. He managed a whisper as he placed a reassuring hand on her arm.

"I ordered Chinese take-out," he managed to croak past the pressure beginning to constrict his windpipe.

She took a moment to register his words, turning toward him slowly with the knife still in her hand and her knuckles white around the handle. She dropped her arm from his throat. Her eyes were wild and dark, pupils dilated like a cat ready to pounce. Her palm was on his chest and he could feel its heat penetrating his shirt; he could feel her trembling. Her face, though still delicate and lovely, look on a severity that shook him to the bone. A mere knock on the door had terrified this woman in a way he'd never seen anyone before. And her reflexes were so quick that he wasn't sure if even he had even realized yet what had happened. He reached a hand to her shoulder to steady her… but just as much to steady himself.

"My god… Agent Reddington I am so sorry. I…" she said, dropping the knife and letting it clatter to the floor. He gathered her protectively toward him and shushed soothingly in her ear. She wilted against him, her chest heaving. He could feel her heart beating like a hummingbird – hurried and slight.

"It's OK, Liz. Jesus Christ… it's OK you just scared the hell out of me. You're fine… you're fine…" Her breathing slowed and he looked her in the eyes. Tears were pooling into their corners, and he pretended not to notice. From what little he knew of her, he knew she'd be too proud to have him comfort her any further. "I'm going to get the door, why don't you go sit down for a minute."

She settled, wide-eyed onto the couch. She looked terrified and he could not even begin to imagine what of. In truth, he was terrified by the fact that this strong willed, unshakeable woman that he'd met mere hours ago was so scared of a knock at the door that it seemingly turned her instantly into a wild-eyed assassin.

Silently, he reminded himself to buy about thirty more dead bolts for his door.


End file.
